


The Laundry Room

by benji_writes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22836265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benji_writes/pseuds/benji_writes
Summary: Bucky is soft. He finds love in the laundry room of his apartment building.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 109





	The Laundry Room

He wasn’t sure what it was like to be in love. He had loved people, sure – his ma, his sister, Steve. But he didn’t really know what it was like to truly love a woman, and to be loved by her in return. He thought it must be beautiful. 

It wasn’t what he’d wanted in the forties. He was so young – handsome. Girls wanted to be around him all the time, looking up at him wide eyed and lashes fluttering. He’d take them dancing, because that’s what they wanted, and he’d walk them home. He’d get a kiss on the cheek from the girls who were looking for a boyfriend, and a kiss on the lips from the girls who were looking for a good time, and he’d walk home alone. 

It was never more than that though. No one ever made it past a few dates, and then came the war, and the dark, and the cold, and suddenly his hair was long. When his hair was short, and his body whole, he was someone else. He didn’t know who that was anymore, angry that he would never get him back. Girls didn’t look at him anymore. No wide eyed women he could call “doll.” No one who’s eyelashes would flutter. And if girls wouldn’t look at him, what did the rest of his life look like? 

Back then, he thought he’d eventually find someone to settle down with. He dreamed about the end of the war, soldiers coming home to the ones they’d left behind. He dreamed he’d meet a girl. One he could write letters to while he was away. One he could come home to. The war would end, and he’d have long since asked her father for his blessing. He’d get down on one knee. In a house of his own, with his wife and a baby. A big backyard where the kids could run around in the grass. If anyone had known how much he thought about it, he never would have lived it down. But the world was different now. _He_ was different now. And how could he let himself dream of a life where all those old wishes came true? He would just be disappointed in the end. 

You met Bucky in the laundry room of your apartment building. You lived in a pretty nice place. Not so nice that you had a doorman or security, but you needed a code to get in the first door, and a special key to get in the second. A nice enough place for there to be a laundry room in your building so the tenants wouldn’t need to block out the hours in a day to go and sit at the laundromat. 

You did your laundry every time your hamper was full, and you had two hampers. One for your clothes, and the other for cloths and towels. This meant that you washed your clothes every Saturday. Every other Wednesday, you did your towels. You liked the regularity that came with this schedule. The routine nature of it comforted you, and so unless there was some terrible emergency, absolutely nothing was going to disrupt your laundry schedule.

You loved your laundry time, in part due to how much you loved the laundry room itself. When you got off the elevator and walked down the hall to the laundry room, you saw the machines lined against the back wall. They stacked one on top of the other, and there were four washer/dryer sets. There was a big soft couch in the laundry room, with a big purple plush chair and a coffee table. There was also the long table in the middle of the room where you could fold your clothes, or put down your detergent or dryer sheets. The walls were a soft green, and it felt like a safe space, and no one was ever there when you went. 

You always did your laundry fairly late at night. For the most part, midnight would roll around, and you’d transfer your clothes from the hamper to the laundry basket and putter your way downstairs. No one in the building ever did their clothes at this hour, and that meant for the hour and forty five minutes while your clothes cycled through the machines, the laundry room was yours. Sometimes you’d just sit on the couch. You’d read romances or watch tv shows on your phone. Sometimes you sang, and sang, and spun around the room to the Tangled soundtrack. When everything was too much, you would sit on top of the long table and watch the laundry spin. 

The night you met him, you’d fallen asleep on the long table. He’d just moved into a new building, enjoying the quiet that came with being slightly farther away from the city. It was a nice enough place, and it felt good to be on his own again. To open the windows as wide as he wanted, or keep the tv on the Food Network channel all day. He never had to wear shoes, and he could take his arm off without worrying about anybody looking. A spider plant he’d bought at the farmers market sat on his window sill. He’d named it Dave. There was a laundry room in the basement, and he could buy the Gain detergent (because it smelled better than the Tide they used at the compound) and the Snuggle dryer sheets and fold his own clothes again. He liked it better this way. On his own where he could choose. 

It was about a week after he’d moved in. His arm was off, and it was time to do his laundry. Unwilling to risk the possibility of running into neighbors in the hallway or the laundry room, he waited till night. After all, who did their laundry after midnight on a Saturday? In a white t-shirt and blue fleece pajama pants he made his way downstairs. Holding the laundry basket against his hip, he walked off the elevator and down the hall to the laundry room. What Bucky had not factored into his night, was a beautiful woman snoring softly on top of the table in the middle of the room. Bucky stood there for a moment, not quite sure if what he was seeing was actually real or not. He walked backwards out of the room, waited a moment, then closed his eyes and shook his head back and forth a few times, as if to erase the image like nothing more than powder in an etch a sketch. He opened his eyes and walked back into the room hoping it would be empty, but there you still were. Sleeping. Your clothes from the wash now done, just waiting for you to wake up and move them to the dryer. 

Bucky didn’t know what to do. Just standing in the doorway, he couldn’t help but stare at you. You’d sprawled out, limbs hanging off the side, with your phone laying on the ground where it had clearly fallen out of your hand. You wore a big shirt with a picture of an alien on the front that said “Humans aren’t real,” and a pair of boxers as pajama shorts. One of your flip flops had fallen off your foot, and he noticed your fingers and toes were painted a matching shade of periwinkle. He couldn’t stop looking at you, which he realized was perhaps kinda creepy, but there was just something about you. He wanted to look at you, and to keep looking at you. He wanted you to wake up, and to look at him too. 

He wasn’t sure what he should do. Should he turn around and come back another time? Should he just put his stuff in the laundry and leave? Should he wake you up? Why were you on the table when there was a couch not five feet away? Should he try and coax you up and gently over to the couch? But if he did that why wouldn’t you just go back to your own apartment? He wasn’t even wearing his prosthetic. Fuck. Okay. Here’s the plan – pick the phone up from the floor, put the phone on the table, quietly put the clothes in the washing machine, and leave. 

With his mind made up, he put his basket down in front of the machine. He picked your phone up and placed it by you on the table. He opened the wash, which made a very loud clicking sound as it opened. He threw his clothes in, filled the machine with detergent, and shut the door to start the cycle. Naturally, echoing through the silence, the door made the same loud clicking as it closed, and an even louder click as the machine locked. Taking a deep breath, and feeling like he’d just run a god damn marathon, he turned to leave only to make eye contact with the woman. Fuck.

You had woken up, probably from the loud click of the machine, and Bucky imagined what he must’ve looked like to you. A one armed man you’d never seen before standing in the laundry room at almost one in the morning. He was suddenly hyper aware of the fact that he was not wearing shoes, and that his big toe stuck out of the hole in his left sock.

Uncertain of what to do, Bucky just stood there. Looking at you, as you looked at him. Two people frozen at the threshold of something nameless. A liminal moment in time. 

You reached your hand up to wipe the sleep out of your eyes and said, “Good mornin’.”

Rolling with it he said, “Mornin’.”

After a big yawn you said, “You the guy who just moved in 4B?”

He nodded, almost solemnly.

“I’m in 4A.”

He was quiet after that, as if taking in the information. You weren’t sure what else to say, and neither was he really, but he still stood there. 

After a moment you said, “Sorry I was asleep. That was probably pretty weird.” 

He shrugged his shoulders, not particularly worried about it. It took a second, but then he spoke up again and said, “Your laundry is done.” 

You let out a big sigh, and hopped off the table, sliding your shoe back on once your foot hit the ground. Wordlessly you started to change your stuff over. Bucky, uncertain of what to do, simply watched you for a bit. When you turned back to look at him, he was gone. If it weren’t for the laundry basket sat in front of his machine, the clothes inside spinning around, you’d have sworn you dreamt the whole thing. You imagined what you must’ve looked like to him. He looked like a sculpture of Adonis and you’d been drooling, asleep on top of a public table. Thinking too much about it was going to give you a headache. 

When he came back downstairs to move his clothes into the dryer, you were sat on the couch like a normal person. When you glanced over at him, you noticed he’d changed into a long sleeved hoodie, and looked like he had two regular arms. Before common sense or any semblance of decorum could stop you, the words tumbled out, “Was I dreaming or did you only have one arm half an hour ago.”

The second you said it, you smacked you hand over your mouth. He turned to look at you, since he’d just finished moving his things and closed the dryer door. He stared at you, though not unkindly, and as if desperate to make up for asking you rushed out all at once, “I am so sorry you do not have to answer that question. That was so not the right thing to say, I am so sorry. Oh my god, I’m so so sorry. Please don’t hate me forever, I promise I’m not normally this rude.” 

You could see the corner of his mouth turn up, “It’s alright. I put my prosthetic back on.”

You sat there looking at him, and nodded earnestly. You were too embarrassed to say anything else, and suddenly overwhelmed, you couldn’t even look him in the eye. 

“Have a good night, doll.”

You threw your head back and groaned once he was gone. What an embarrassment.

—

The next time you saw him was a week later. Saturday night, laundry time. You were wide awake that night, and playing solitaire on the coffee table when he walked in. “Dancing in the Moonlight” played on your phone in the background, and he gave you a soft smile when he walked in. You wanted him to smile at you again, so you just smiled back. He went about his business, you went about yours, and from there on out, that was how it was. He came back every Saturday after that. Normally you two didn’t say anything, the first few Saturdays especially. In those days, there was no more than passing smiles, glances stolen when the other was looking away. Back then, you only knew what his voice sounded like in a sleepy memory at the back of your mind. 

But the weeks went on, and suddenly he would linger for longer in the laundry room, rather than going upstairs right after he’d put his stuff in the machines. Before you knew it, he took up residence in the faded purple chair, that you’d now come to think of as his, while you sat on the couch, or sometimes on the long table. 

One day, seated criss cross on the table, you finally heard him speak again, “What are you doing when you sit up there?”

You turned back to look at him, and you met those curious blue eyes, looking at you like they could figure you all out if he just looked long enough.

“Well,” you said. “I watch the laundry spin.”

He contemplated that for a moment. Eventually he just said, “Why?”

Not quite sure how to articulate it out loud, you told him, “Why don’t you come try it and figure that out for yourself.”

Physically unable to resist the pull, he got up from his chair, put down his book and walked over to you. You moved over a little bit, and patted the spot next to you, and he sat with his legs hanging off the side. The two of you, in the dim quiet of Saturday night, watched the laundry spin. It hadn’t made sense to him before, but sitting there with you, he felt like he was beginning to understand. It was peaceful. Watching the colors go round, and the water splash against the door. Bubbles of detergent rolled gently, and there was an ease that blanketed across him. He couldn’t describe it, that same nameless thing, but in that moment, Bucky was certain that he would be okay. That everything, in the end, would be alright. He wasn’t sure if it was you, or the laundry, or the way your knee lay lightly against his thigh, but he could feel it. The threshold of something. He looked over at you, only for a moment. Your eyes, trained on the gentle spin of the washer, he thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful than you. And in that instant he allowed himself to dream the dreams of his youth. Those hopes of a woman who’d love him someday. A girl he’d get down on one knee for. The house, with the backyard big enough for a swing set. A baby he’d rock to sleep. This time, he imagined a laundry room. One with a big warm couch sat right in front of the machines. They could cover themselves in blankets, listen to that easy hum, and watch as bursts of color went by. He imagined one hamper, where both of their clothes went. A washer mixed with his and hers. Right then, Bucky Barnes knew he would marry you, and by God, he still did not even know your name. You looked at him, only to find he was already looking at you. You gave him a thousand watt smile and he couldn’t help but give you one right back. 

Soon enough you were both folding your clothes downstairs rather than taking your baskets up to fold them in your separate apartments, and before you even realized, you were doing towels on Saturday nights too. The time spent downstairs growing longer and longer. You didn’t always talk, but sometimes he’d ask what song you were listening to and you’d spend hours showing him songs you thought he might like, the ones you loved the most. He’d show you the ones he listened to as a kid, and he’d spin you around the laundry room to Vera Lynn. You’d sway back and forth, and he’d place his head gently on top of your. You’d ask if he was down for a game of cards, and suddenly four hours had gone by and you were getting your ass handed to you at gin rummy. He once apologized for taking his prosthetic off in front of you, and you smacked him across the chest and told him not to talk stupid. You saw him without it a lot more after that night. You sat together on the couch. You set up your laptop and watched The Wizard of Oz and the Fast and the Furious movies.You’d bring drinks and snacks and share them freely. Those walls were yours, and Saturday nights together became the most sacred of practices. 

It was early one morning when there was an erratic knocking from the front hall. They were pounding on your door, and it was six am on Sunday morning. You had only left the laundry room an hour and a half before. Rolling out of bed with an angry groan, you opened your door, and there he was. Half dressed, prosthetic off, he looked to be in such distress it woke you right up. Before you could ask what was wrong, he said, “I have something very important I need to ask you, and I keep thinking about it, and I just need you to give me an answer okay?”

“Of course,” you said without a trace of hesitation.

He took a deep breath to calm himself down, “What is your name?”

You blinked at him for a moment, and maybe it was the seriousness on his face, or the lack of sleep, or maybe it was just him, but you burst out laughing. A bottomless belly laugh, that you felt flutter in your chest. Had you not laughed so hard you began coughing, you wonder if you ever would have stopped. He still stood there, deadly serious, and noticing this you breathed deep and settled. 

“Will you tell me, please?” He whispered it so tenderly, that you couldn’t stop yourself from reaching up to cup his cheek with your hand. 

“My name is Y/N.”

He closed his eyes, “Y/N.”

He repeated it once, then twice. It sounded like reverence. Fell from his lips like a prayer. And when he opened his eyes you whispered, “Will you tell me yours?”

The corner of his mouth turned up, “My name is James. But, most people call me Bucky.”

You closed your eyes, much like he had, and almost on accident you breathed out, “James.”

Before you could open your eyes, you felt his lips on yours. He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you as close to him as he possibly could. For the first time, he knew what it was like to love a woman, and to be loved by her in return. 

You slept beside him that morning – shared blankets and body heat. You watched him sleep, the sound of the rain hitting the roof and the windows. For just a moment you imagined a ring on your finger. A house, with a laundry room of your own. Walls that kept the two of you safe and warm. You could see the first time you held your baby. You’d look into their little eyes and they’d be his exact shade of blue. You moved closer to him, and on instinct, in his sleep, he adjusted to you. He pulled you to him, and bleary-eyed you snuggled as far into his warmth as you could, closed your eyes, and fell asleep.


End file.
